"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

When I think of you I hate myself and my existence. When I think if you I feel sad and in pain and like the world has gone black. Because I look like you I make mom sad, and because I look like you she sometimes beats me.

I always wonder if you’re actually traveling; just the way you told me back when I was gullible. The lie of getting to see you again is better than the realization of never being able to hug you again, so I tell myself that I’ll see you when I get home, the one that mom and i left you at before our big move.

It’s been 14 years since I last saw you, and 10 years since I last heard you over the phone. I don’t remember what you look like, but I guess that’s not important when I’m told I look like and exact copy of you; it’s not the same though; when I hug myself as I cry myself to sleep I feel cold and empty, the warmth of you is what I want and when I seek the you within myself you’re never around; it’s not like you ever were but pretending doesn’t hurt when you’ve gotten used to living in lies.

Mom talks about you to me, she doesn’t know how to feel, I think. She always tells me to be like you but also tells me not to be like you. She tells me how wise you were and how much you’ve taught her over the time y’all were together. She also tells me of the times you slept with other women and came home the next day smelling of another while having lipstick on the shirts she ironed with love. I can’t hate you though. I can but i can’t; I did the same to the person I loved.

I still pray at night, though I have lost faith. I pray that I might meet Ebehart again, but most importantly, you; sooner rather than later of course, because I’m too scared to go to you myself. And while looking at my ceiling, I think about how great it would be if I got to ascend while I slept; because life after death would no longer be my issue since I would be dead. Not a lot would change, apart from me no longer having a physical appearance and whatever else comes along with dying. I wonder how you’d feel or react knowing all of this. Would you also blame me for your suffering? Would you also blame me for your own depression? Would I too be the root of your issues? I’m a heavy burden, not going to deny that.

Going into this, I had so much to tell you that when I started writing it was barely 10 pm; it is now 3 hours later, with crying breaks in between, and have come to a stop because I no longer am able to put emotion into words as I am incapable. I will talk to you again in due time, but for now I want you to know that I love you and that if mom’s time was near to please take me instead.